


chase a feather in the wind

by remy (iamremy)



Series: askbox prompts (multifandom) [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, Hospitals, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-11-02 10:08:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20709536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/remy
Summary: anonymous asked:🌀 for Wincest, please? Thank youPrompt was "melody". Dean sings to Sam.





	chase a feather in the wind

**Author's Note:**

> is it really me if i don't make at least one prompt sad? no character death tho!

“I’ll be honest with you,” says the surgeon, and Dean immediately braces himself for bad news. “He’s had quite the knock to the head. We’ve run the scans, we’ve done what we can for him, and now, all we can really do is wait.”

“Wait?” Dean’s voice is hoarse from lack of use. He’s been here for what feels like forever, slowly losing his shit with each second that passes by without news. “Wait for _what_?”

“Just… wait,” the surgeon says, and puts a sympathetic hand on Dean’s shoulder. He looks down at it, and then back up at her, silently begging her for… he doesn’t know what. He knows there’s nothing else she can do. “We’re going to keep monitoring him, though, and we’ll keep you updated. Meanwhile, there’s a cot set up for you in your partner’s room, in case you want to stay with him.”

As if there’s any force in the universe that could pry him from Sam’s side right now, but he doesn’t say that. Instead he just nods, and thanks her, feeling oddly numb now. All that time spent pacing the length of the waiting room, drinking shitty vending machine coffee and haranguing every passing doctor or nurse for information has left him drained, exhausted beyond belief.

“Hey,” says the surgeon as she takes her hand off his shoulder. “It’s not that bad, all right? Initial response to stimulus seems good. If he wakes up soon, chances are that he’s going to be just fine.”

“And if he doesn’t?” The question is out of Dean’s mouth before he can stop himself.

The surgeon bites her lip, and then says, “We’ll cross that bridge if we ever come to it, Mr. Smith.”

Dean considers this, then considers his options. Then he nods. “Okay. Thank you, Doc.”

She pats his arm, turns, and leaves him standing there, hovering by the door of Sam’s room. It’s irrational, and yet he can’t help but feel like going in will shatter some kind of illusion. Seeing Sam in bed, comatose, is just going to make all this real in a way it hasn’t been feeling, so far.

But it’s _Sam_, and he needs Dean by his side, and Dean could never leave him like this. He takes a deep breath, braces himself once more, and steps inside, eyes drawn immediately to the bed in the center of the room, and Sam in it. He looks impossibly small, paler than Dean’s ever seen him, and unnaturally still. For a wild moment, though, Dean’s brain pulls up the image of Sam the way he looks when he’s fast asleep, in their bed at home, and he wants nothing more to wake up and have it all be a dream, but–

There are machines beeping around him and Sam’s missing that healthy flush to his skin that Dean loves so much, and his face is bruised to hell and back, his head a mess of bandages. It’s very much real, and Sam’s unconscious, and there is no way to predict what’s going to happen now. Like the surgeon told him, there is nothing Dean can do now, but wait and see.

He’s never been good at that, though, at sitting still and letting things just _happen_ to him or around him. He can’t not be actively doing _something, _anything, literally anything at all, because if he just waits, and then something happens, he’ll never ever forgive himself. Not when it could have been his inaction that led to it.

But he doesn’t know what to _do_.

There’s a really uncomfortable looking chair next to Sam’s bed, and Dean sinks down in it, finally off his feet after the hell that was the waiting room. His eyes fall on Sam’s chart at the foot of his bed, and for a moment he considers flipping through it, seeing exactly what’s going on – and then he balks. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss, and this is one of those times.

Instead he just ends up taking Sam’s hand between both of his. He hates that the action is well-worn, the tableau a familiar one – Sam, on the brink of death, and Dean by his side, holding his hand and praying to every entity he can think of, and already making plans in the back of his mind.

_Plan A. Save Sam. Make whatever deal you have to. Deal with the consequences only once you’re sure Sam’s going to be fine._

And if that doesn’t work, there’s always Plan B. _Follow Sam.  
_

There are no other options. There never really were.

He presses his lips to Sam’s knuckles, taking care not to disturb any of the wires or the IV line, and whispers against his skin. “Come back to me, baby. I’ll be waitin’ right here for as long as I need to. Just come back.”

Sam remains unresponsive, but his hand is warm against Dean’s mouth, and Dean takes that as a good sign. “Waitin’ right here,” he reminds Sam again, and closes his eyes, bowing his head.

Once, when they’d been younger, Sam had gotten a similar injury on a werewolf hunt that had gone sideways faster than any of them could’ve expected. Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that, the sight of Sam looking six instead of sixteen as he lay in that hospital bed. He won’t ever forget the extreme helplessness he’d felt in that moment, so damn identical to the way he feels now. There’s something eerie about how exactly that time of two and half decades ago mirrors now.

So Dean ends up doing what he had done then, the only thing that makes sense to him right now in the tired fog of his mind. He opens his eyes, smiles at Sam even though Sam can’t see it right now, and kisses his hand again. “Just gonna keep you company for a while,” he murmurs. “See if I can annoy you into waking up just to shut me up.”

But that’s not what he’ll do, and he knows it. The melody jumps immediately to his mind, the words ready on his tongue, as if his whole being had just been waiting for his brain to catch up and get with the program.

_Should I fall out of love, my fire in the light_

His voice is still hoarse and scratchy, but it’s what he’s got, and he’ll keep going till his throat is literally bleeding, or till Sam wakes up. No matter how long that takes.

**Author's Note:**

> dean singing to sam in a hospital bed is one of my favorite tropes asdfgfds (also don’t worry, sam does eventually wake up, and then promptly tells dean he looks and sounds like shit. ahh, true love.)
> 
> yell at me in the comments, i'd deserve it tbh
> 
> love,  
remy


End file.
